On the Election

Years ago when my children were small, we owned an old falling down house in East Point—it’s amazing how many bedrooms you can get for $60k when you don’t need up to code electricity, a dry roof, or reliable plumbing. It was there one night when my husband was out of town that somebody shot somebody else in a car right front of our house and the victim jumped out and disappeared between us and the big old falling down house next door.

The good news—I heard later the guy was ok. But being alone in the house with little boys, terrified, on the phone with a husband 300 miles away, trying to talk me in to cocking a shotgun (his father’s) that I wasn’t about to touch, being alone in that situation prompted me to take action—I made a bunch of flyers and delivered them on foot with the boys, inviting people to come to a meeting of the neighborhood association. There wasn’t actually an association, but I spoke to the local police and they gave us (me and whoever accepted) a room to meet and a few people showed up. And we talked about being safe and maybe having our first neighborhood cleanup day.

So monthly, I kept doing the same thing. Making flyers, distributing them. I invited someone from Trees Atlanta to come speak to us and we did several tree plantings. And then we had refreshments. And more people came. And we did beautification projects and made lists of the old people or those who were housebound that we needed to keep an eye on. At risk boys were invited to Boy Scouts.

There was no sales pitch on my part—and by default I became the first president. All I said was come to the meetings and the cleanups if you can, or just remember to pick up a piece of trash when you see it and look out for your neighbors. And it just kept growing, so big that one day Vincent came back from the Scout hut (Methodist Church) out of breath saying, “Mom, there was this crazy lady with purple hair and she was yelling at the City Council!” The council was holding a meeting there that must have involved public input.

That crazy lady turned out to be the second president of the Frog Hollow neighborhood association. After it was big enough to have a voice, it became political. It got so organized that it had a newsletter and socials and I was given a bouquet of yellow roses to usher me out of office. Which was fine by me. My goal had been far less ambitious than the new president, and the group eventually became a force to be reckoned with down at City Hall.

It reminds me a little of Acts--in the sense that Christianity started in a very organic way. By the time Christ died, he had a lot of followers who believed his message. And it wasn’t long before the 11 remaining apostles started to get organized. Each of them became a bishop and they threw the Biblical equivalent of dice (bones) for who would replace Judas.

Right now, the comparison between that election of Matthias, the second 12th apostle and I believe the first elected bishop, and our current election process for the new bishop of Atlanta has not gone unnoticed. What is most important? The ability to administrate? Charisma? Knowledge of our diocese, or the ability to build consensus or youth programs and membership? Or maybe a prophetic voice and the courage to stand up against injustice?

Those are the types of questions the clergy and delegates are wrestling with now and will be no doubt until the election on June 2. Grace and peace (and luck) to them all.

Come, See, Get Settled In

Our three-year-old dog, Chubby, is what is called in canine parlance “under socialized.” He has spent very little time around people outside of our family or around other dogs. His world has been a house with a large, fenced backyard. And that’s always been enough.

He’s never been good with new people—and typically growls like we finally completely lost our minds and let Rasputin in the front door. But that’s hasn't been a problem, until recently when he had an “incident” with another dog (its owner was walking it in front of our house, when Chubby escaped) that’s forcing the issue of introducing Chubby to the outside world.

So for the past couple of weeks I’ve been working on the Chubby problem. I’ve taken him to Petsmart a couple of times to practice being around other dogs and people. He’s been to the vet. At 50 pounds, he shouldn’t be afraid of much. But on a walk yesterday in our neighborhood as we approached a strip of sidewalk cafes filled with children, people and dogs, he bolted like a horse, dug in his heels and began shivering. The trainer at the pet store was right, I thought: Chubby’s biggest problem is fear of the unknown.

Anyway, I coaxed him through the Saturday afternoon crowd, found a seat and sat down for a cold drink so he could soak up the atmosphere, the reality that in general other people and other dogs are fairly benign. (Because he’s a dog, I did not point out to Chubby that most people and dogs are usually too concerned with their own issues to even notice yours.)

By the time we got back to the house, Chubby’s ears had perked up and he seemed a more confident and happy dog for the experience.

Now I know people are not dogs—at least most of them aren’t—but it occurred to me this morning as I was watching movies made by the children of St. Dunstan's (posted elsewhere on this site) that in a church context, people who grow up in church from the beginning are at a distinct advantage in terms of well-being and security in what it
means to be a part of a spiritual community. There is never a question of what all these strange words are, what the greater spiritual meaning might be, the sacraments, the many personalities—it’s as natural as a first language. For cradle Episcopalians (and other denominations and religions) there’s nothing to be afraid of, no fear of a misstep or misunderstandings or of not being accepted.

While that’s the perfect situation (believe me I would do this over with my own children and I’m already pushing for a church home for any future grandchildren I might have) I think there’s a lot to be said for the “under churched” just coming in and hanging around, soaking up the atmosphere, whether they understand any of it or not.

I’ve heard many times people look down their noses at Easter Lilies or surly teenagers who come to church because “my mother made me.” But I never have any problem with that. I think the author Sara Miles got it right when she said, “come and see.” I would add to that, come and see again next week. Then come for movie night this summer. Then come because it’s someone’s birthday or mother’s day or simply because you
have nothing better to do. Or because you’ve been asked to dig holes for Stations of the Cross. Or because there’s a lecture. Come, see, and get settled in. Everything else will take care of itself.

St. Stephen

It has been said I listen with half an ear. Nowhere is this short-coming more easily picked out than in Sunday School. We’re in Acts right now, what the apostles did after the crucifixion, before there was such a thing as Christianity. It was a time when evangelism—spreading the Word—bubbled up, creating a new religion as opposed to a sect of Judaism.

Anyway, Patricia was talking about how at one point, after Pentecost everyone was preaching and praying but nobody was feeding the widows. So the early followers of Christ decided to create deacons to go out and take care of the poor, and one of the seven chosen to do this was named Stephen.

I should have listened more closely because I’m not sure if Patricia told us if he took care of the widows or not. But he did go out preaching in a way that sounded incredibly critical and unnecessarily nasty.

This is where I missed something from the lectern, the point where I must have lapsed into some kind of supernatural Sunday morning daydream. The next thing I heard was the crowd became infuriated and took him outside of the city gates and stoned him to death, while Saul, later Paul, stood by watching everyone’s stuff, with wholehearted approval.

And so Stephen became Christianity’s first martyr, Patricia told us.

I was at a loss--how could someone become a martyr, I asked, when he was preaching with words like, “You stiffnecked and uncircumcised in heart and ears!” Isn’t that sort of asking for it?

That’s all I heard. So it’ s a good thing I took Patricia’s advice to actually read Acts when I got home from church--at least up until the point where Stephen (aka St. Stephen) was martyred.

Not only do I listen with half an ear, I find it difficult sometimes to put myself in the mindset of when the various pieces of the Bible were written and I tend to want to judge by modern standards. In context, it makes perfect sense—Jesus had been crucified and there was bitterness and chaos and real fear about what would happen next. The world was in upheaval, political battles for hearts and minds. There may have been a feeling that God could come down at any moment and exact a vengeful (probably bloody) justice on people who didn’t do right.

Anyway, for the record, this is the rest of what St. Stephen said: You stiffnecked and uncircumcised in heart and ears! You always resist the Holy Spirit; as your fathers did, so do you. Which of the prophets did your fathers not persecute? And they killed those who foretold the coming of the Just One, of whom you now have become the betrayers and murders, who have received the law by the direction of angels and have not kept it.

A few verses later: And they stoned Stephen as he was calling on God and saying, “Lord Jesus, receive my spirit.” Then he knelt down and cried out with a loud voice, “Lord, do not charge them with this sin.” And when he had said this, he fell asleep.